North with Doc: Doc Has Us in Stiches

“Hold still,” Doc said.

“I’m trying,” I said, “but your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.”

“That’s because I’m a dentist,” Doc said, “not an M.D. Also, your bedside is the last place I would ever want to be.”

Doc put a square of sterile gauze over the sanitized and sutured gash I had been blessed with an hour before. I thought it wasn’t serious enough to need more than a Band-Aid, but Doc disagreed. It was too wide and deep. He secured the gauze with a foot of waterproof tape. “That should do it,” he said. “Try not to bump it as that may cause it to bleed again.”

“Is there danger of infection?” I said.

“Are you serious?” Doc said. “Boats and fishing cabins aren’t known for their sparkling hygiene. Keep an eye on it. I’ll change the dressing tonight.”

As Doc was finishing up, putting stuff back in his well-stocked first aid kit, I reflected on what caused the injury.

We had been drifting a pool off a small incoming rapids, casting heavy spoons to the edge of the fast water. The pike were hitting hard, and some were getting hooked deep, so my spring-loaded mouth spreader and needle-nose pliers were within easy reach. One pike not only inhaled my spoon, but it came out through the gills, and a single hook of the treble was buried in its side.

I cradled the fish on a wet towel on my lap, trying to keep it horizontal to reduce stress. I got its mouth propped open with the spreader, unsnapped the swivel, and pulled it and the line back through the pike’s toothy mouth. It was a decent-sized pike, and I still kick myself for underestimating its strength. As I began to work the lure free, it bucked and spun, I lost my grip on the pliers, and while trying to control the stinky green thing, one of the free trebles stuck below the thumb joint on my left hand, ripping a nasty furrow into the loose skin. It didn’t bleed much at first, so I finished removing the offending hook, held the pike in the water until its gills pushed water in and out, and it swam away with a splash that hit me in the face. A gush of water also hit my hand, and the blood flowed like the jug wine at Aunt Lucy’s Annual Spaghetti Squash Picnic and Pet Raccoon Races.

While I used my slimy fishing towel to slow the outgoing tide of my most precious bodily fluid, Doc took the helm and got us back to the cabin, cleaned the wound, numbed my thumb with an injection of lidocaine, and sewed in three dissolvable stitches.

“Good job, Doc,” I said. “I don’t know what I would have done without your surgical expertise.”

Doc said, “You know what they call a person who flunks out of medical school?”

“No,” I said. “What?”

“A dentist.”

“Isn’t that a bit disparaging of your profession?”

“Not at all,” Doc said. “There are a lot more doctor jokes than dentist jokes.”

“I gotta say I don’t hear many about dentists.”

“Here’s one,” Doc said. “A woman says to her dentist, ‘I don’t know which is worse, having a tooth pulled or having a baby.’ The dentist says, ‘Well, make up your mind. I have to adjust the chair.’”

“I’ll remember that knee-slapper,” I said, wincing at the pain as the lidocaine began to wear off, hoping I’d be able to hold a fishing rod with my trashed hand.

Back on the lake again, we met up with the other two boats. The kid and policeman proudly displayed a safety pin stringer of walleyes destined for the dinner table. The attorney and banker told a greatly embellished tale about a bald eagle that swooped in and stole a hooked walleye. I showed off my bandage.

The policeman said, “Doc, those pre-med classes so many years ago must have done some good.”

“A surprising amount of it is useful for dental work,” Doc said. “I have a lot of friends in the medical profession, and I’m glad I don’t have to deal with patients like they do today.”

“Lots of room to improve, for sure,” the banker said.

“You have no idea,” Doc said. “Like, after looking at x-rays, the doctor tells her patient, ‘We found a tumor the size of a grape.’ The patient says, ‘That doesn’t sound too bad.’ The doctor says, ‘Let me finish. A grape fruit.’”

“Bada bing, bada boom,” the kid said. “That was a good one.”

“I got a million of ‘em,” Doc said.

“Fishing and stand-up comedy,” the banker said. “What an interesting combo.”

Doc tried another. A guy says, “Doctor, I think I am losing my memory.’ The doctor says, ‘When did this happen?’ The guy says, ‘When did what happen?’”

“That deserves a rim shot,” the policeman said.

Doc and I followed the other boats as we fast idled in and out of coves, and past weedbeds, rocky points, and fallen trees that provided dandy hiding places for fish. When one boat had a hook-up and stopped, the others would pass on by. We leapfrogged like that for an hour or so, then looped back to the cabin to leave the stringer of walleyes and have lunch.

While munching an appetizer of mixed nuts and salt and vinegar potato chips, Doc said, “A woman says, ‘Doctor, I think I’m a kleptomaniac.’ He says, ‘Have you taken anything for it?’ She says, ‘Yes. An iPhone, a laptop, and two TVs.’”

The attorney brought out the bologna. The banker grabbed the bread and condiments. The kid sliced cheddar and pepper cheese. The policeman prepared lettuce and tomatoes. Doc and I raided the big drink cooler for something to wash it all down.

As we finished up, Doc said, “The plague, the flu, and Covid walk into a doctor’s office. The doctor says, ‘What is this? Some kind of sick joke?’”

Knobby’s fly-in staff back in Sioux Lookout probably heard us react to that groaner.

“They can’t all be winners,” Doc said. “How about this? An ER doctor tells his patient, ‘You’ve lost so much blood you need a transfusion. What’s your blood type?’ The patient says, ‘B positive.’ The doctor says, ‘Believe me, I’m trying, but you lost a lot of blood.’”

“An oldie but a goodie,” I said. “But while my funny bone enjoys the tickling, can we take a break from the Comedy Club routine for a while, and go fishing instead?”

Our three-boat task force motored to a tiny island, maybe 30' x 30' and 5' high, with a couple trees and a bush growing from its ancient freeze-opened cracks. We’d tried the unlikely looking spot years earlier, and discovered the deep drop-offs all around it were super walleye hangouts.

Jigs with twister tails were nearly as successful as salted minnows. One time we had a triple hookup, and there were too many doubles to count.

Doc lit a cigar the size of a fire extinguisher, took a huffy puff, and said, “A doctor on the phone to one of his patients says, ‘I have bad news and really bad news.’ The patient says, ‘Give me the bad news first.’ The doctor says, ‘Tests came back and you have 24 hours to live.’ ‘That’s horrible!’ the patient says. ‘But what’s the really bad news?’ The doctor says, ‘I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.’”

“I’ve heard a dozen good news-bad news jokes, but never that one,” the attorney said.

“Then there’s this,” Doc said. “A guy goes to the doctor, and says, ‘I think I’m going deaf.’ The doctor says, ‘Can you describe the symptoms?’ The guy says, ‘Sure. Homer is fat and Marge has blue hair.’”

“That would be a bit obscure for some,” the banker said, “but anyone watching TV the last 30 years should get it. You suppose these jokes get passed around at American Medical Association conventions?”

“If they aren’t, they should be,” the kid said.

“I got one,” the banker said. “An old guy is having his hearing checked. The doctor says, ‘Hey! You have a suppository in your ear.’ The guy says, ‘Damn! Now I know where my hearing aid went.’”

The snickering from that one lasted two minutes.

“Wanna hear my grandpa’s favorite doctor joke?” the policeman said.

“Let ‘er rip,” the kid said.

“The doctor asks his nurse, ‘What happened to the little boy who came to the ER last night after swallowing 10 quarters?’ The nurse says, ‘No change yet.’”

I said, “My dad had a favorite, too. After Mr. Jones has his annual physical, the doctor says, ‘You are healthy as a horse.’ Mr. Jones says, ‘I’m so glad to hear that.’ And the doctor says, ‘A horse with kidney stones.’”

That lame laugh inducer opened the floodgates.

“A guy says, ‘Doctor, a bee stung me on the finger.’ The doctor says, ‘Which one?’ The guy says, ‘How would I know? All bees look the same to me.’”

“A guy goes to the doctor for his annual check-up. The doctor says, ‘You are in grave danger. Mercury is in Uranus.’ The guy says, ‘I don’t believe in that astrology nonsense.’ The doctor says, ‘Neither do I. My thermometer broke.’”

“The doctor tells his female patient, ‘I’m waiting for your x-ray.’ She says, ‘But I’ve never dated anyone named Ray.’ The doctor says, ‘Hmmm. Looks like we’ll need a brain scan, too.’”

“My doctor said, ‘You have acute appendicitis.’ I said, compared to who?”

“Okay, that should do it,” Doc said. “Sorry I got this thing started.”

“Don’t be sorry, Doc,” the attorney said. “At least they aren’t lawyer jokes.”

It had been a very long day. Doc put enough lime juice in his gargantuan gimlet to cure the Spanish Armada of scurvy. Then, as promised, he changed the dressing on my injured hand, and said it was healing fast.

Our deep-fried walleye feast that night was hardly healthy, but so stupid good we didn’t care. The card games that followed had just the right amounts of pain and pleasure to deliver a powerful feeling of well-being. Just what the doctor ordered.

We got the cabin squared away for breakfast, and terminal tackle knots re-tied where necessary, anticipating a restful sleep and another great day on the water.

About 10 minutes after we were in the sack, and before anyone had slipped off to Slumberland, Doc said, “A guy comes to work with both of his ears bandaged up. His boss says, ‘What happened to you?’ The guy says, ‘I was ironing a shirt when the phone rang, and I accidentally answered the iron.’ His boss says, ‘What about the other ear?’ The guy says, ‘It hurt so bad, I called my doctor.’”

Snorts. Cackles. Giggles. Hoots.

“Thanks, Doc.”

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North with Doc columnist Greg Knowles lives in Green Valley, Arizona. A 5-­volume set of the first 20 years of North with Doc is available in e-reader form at amazon.com.

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